


Blood & Rain

by GingerBreton



Series: Then I Met You [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociative Episode, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Past Domestic Violence, Pre-Relationship, Sole Survivor POV, a little bit of fluff as a treat, author describes too much scenery but there’s no stopping her, non-canon origin sole survivor, sole survivor is not nate/nora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerBreton/pseuds/GingerBreton
Summary: Ivy and MacCready find themselves close to Malden on a Minutemen job.  The mercenary suggests the scavenging potential of the local town, especially a certain research building lying at the far end.Unfortunately they don't make it that far before a dangerous encounter dredges up memories of a past Ivy has been desperately trying to distance herself from.--We're fighting super mutants, telling bad jokes and getting traumatised.  Come along for the ride!
Relationships: Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Then I Met You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813063
Comments: 15
Kudos: 32





	Blood & Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This fic makes two references to violence within the sole survivor's previous relationship and features a dissociative episode in relation to this. If you are concerned that this might be distressing or triggering for you, please don't read on. 
> 
> Your wellbeing is important, look after yourselves <3

Dark thunderheads hung in the sky to the north, still lingering with the threat of the rainstorm that had followed them all the way from Covenant that morning. The yellow-grey light forcing its way through the gaps in the thick cloud layer created a shifting patchwork that sprawled across the desolate wasteland north of the Mystic River. Far from sparkling under the dancing light, the river itself seemed to swallow all illumination, growing steadily duller as the morning carried on. 

A small swarm of bloodbugs functioned as a welcoming committee when Ivy and MacCready arrived at Taffington early that morning, not knowing what to expect - much to the mercenary’s distaste - except that the area needed clearing if it was going to be safe for settlers. Luckily (or skillfully as her cocky companion would have argued), they’d escaped the encounter with minimal injury. One of the larger bugs had just managed to punch its proboscis into Ivy’s arm, but MacCready’s quick reactions had splattered it with the stock of his rifle. Thanks to him, her arm wasn’t aching any worse than if she’d had a flu shot.

Ivy stood on the old wooden jetty that wrapped around the once pristine house, lost in thought, or maybe just too tired to think straight after what the day had already thrown at them. Despite the layers of dust and grime one couldn’t help but accumulate in the wasteland, the blue and gold of her vault suit still made her stand out in the landscape like one of those dreadful lawn flamingos shoved into the middle of a desert. 

She’d have to lose it one day, the suit that to some had already become so synonymous with her.  _ If _ she ever wanted to blend in, that is. Oh, but that in itself relied on her being ready to accept that this was her reality now. That there was no going back. She’d have to make peace with parts of her that weren’t convinced this wasn’t a bad dream. 

And from what she’d seen so far, this wasn’t a world where acceptance came easy. Nobody seemed interested in knowing  _ her _ . No, it was all about what she could do for them to earn a place.  _ Some societal goals never change _ . She already felt like she’d lost her name; it had been replaced instead with a series of misplaced titles, nicknames or insults. It was probably ungrateful of her to complain, most were well meant. But by this point there was so little of her left from before the war, she didn’t want to become nothing more than a collection of scars and bad memories. 

Water slapped half-heartedly at the jetty’s struts waiting to receive the last of the bloodbug bodies that Ivy rolled into the river. She watched a moment longer as the bug corpse, still bloated from gorging itself on the boathouse’s former residents, began it’s lazy drift downstream towards the harbour. 

Time to see if she could kick some life back into the old generator. 

Taffington itself must have been a real beauty before the war, the kind of place where city folk with more money than they knew what to do with would retire to after a hard day playing the stockmarket or holding people’s lives in their hands. Back when the world was green and the water didn’t make people sick. Now it was a shadow of its former self, half the roof was missing, the doors were hanging off their hinges (or had been until Ivy fixed them), there wasn’t an unbroken window in the place, and there were the remains of a campfire in the middle of the living room. Some fatcat would be rolling in his grave - or at least wherever the blast from the bombs dropping had deposited him. 

This was a true wasteland home now, and as was tradition with all commonwealth dwellings outside the larger settlements, why keep the weather outside when you could invite it in for dinner. Whoever came to settle here would have some work cut out for them, but at least downstairs was dry (if you kept away from the windows) and had doors. It was more than a lot of people had.

The generator finally rumbled into life at well past noon - once she might’ve said lunchtime, but if she still measured the passage of time by the number of meals she’d eaten, far fewer days would’ve passed since the vault. Ivy shivered. Any time she thought about that place it was hard not to be taken over by a chilling sensation that started in her extremities before seeping all the way to her heart, the same sensation that came when they turned on the pods. She swore she’d never fully warmed up since. 

Trying to shake off the sensation, she went in search of MacCready. If they set off sooner rather than later they could make it to Starlight before it got properly dark. He hated travelling at night, especially around places he didn’t know. 

Ever since they set off that morning, MacCready had seemed distracted, eyes either tracing the road in the distance or scanning out east across the water, and despite the horizontal rain and thunder crashing at their heels, he hadn’t complained once. He’d only really seemed like his usual self while they were getting swarmed by bloodbugs, giving her a wry smile (the kind that said  _ how on earth did you survive without me at your back _ ) and an  _ “I’ve got you, boss” _ when he splattered the one that hit her. 

After the scrap, the mercenary (partner? companion? whatever their poorly defined alliance was) had set to work on the turrets, making sure the firing mechanisms were working as they should. He wasn’t much of one for tinkering, but he’d told her he’d be able to do that in his sleep.  _ Cocky shit _ . Then he’d wandered inside the house, presumably to pick through for anything worthwhile before any settlers arrived. 

She couldn’t blame him, Minutemen work was basically a charity gig, and by no means what he’d signed up for. He was first and foremost a mercenary _ , _ and as good as he’d been with her, and as much as she trusted him to keep her alive, it was caps that kept him by her side. It was nothing like Preston’s dedication to a cause, or Piper’s hunt for a story, or whatever other reasons had piqued people’s curiosity enough to travel with her. 

Ivy rummaged through her pack for the small stash of caps she kept on hand, hoping that there was at least enough for her to give him some kind of offering for his efforts. 

After they’d rescued Nick - the original job she’d shelled out 200 caps to hire him for - they’d fallen into the messy habit of splitting the profits from any work she took. MacCready had just said “ _ where to now, boss” _ , and she’d never even thought to ask how long he wanted work for. Or maybe she was too worried that if she brought it up he might remember he had better things to do and head back to Goodneighbor. 

She was fairly certain this wasn’t how mercenary contracts usually worked, and even Preston had queried her on her habit of subtly giving MacCready a larger share of their profits.  _ What was it coming to when the kindest man in the Commonwealth thought she was a soft touch. _

It wasn’t her fault that she saw more desperation than greed when he watched her divvy up their earnings. And boy did he watch carefully, obviously sure Ivy was going to stiff him on his pay. His face was a picture when she did the exact opposite, mouth hanging open (which she politely pretended not to notice) as if he wanted to question her, but thought better of it. 

One thing she had no clue about was what he did with it all. He didn’t buy new clothes, even though that old duster seemed to be held together by force of will alone. He didn’t so much as look at new weapons, clinging to that sniper rifle as though parting from it would be like losing a limb. MacCready had let her take it off him  _ once _ to attach a new scope, and even then he’d hovered over her shoulder like a fretting parent. But the thrill of pride in her craftsmanship was worth the fuss when he approved of the final result, giving her a careful once over like maybe, just _ maybe, _ he hadn’t got the measure of her yet. The only things he ever seemed to treat himself to were noodles, cigarettes and a few (or more) drinks if they were ever in town long enough. 

But since leaving Boston for Sanctuary, the work had been scarce. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, work for the Minutemen had been plentiful, but that made for slim profits. She could see MacCready growing antsy, and she could see her savings growing thin. 

_ Things would pick up something sooner or later, they’d just have to. _

* * *

Ivy found MacCready leaning against the corrugated iron of the old boathouse, second - no, third - cigarette in hand, two ends were already crushed into the dirt at his feet. He was completely lost in thought, staring glassy-eyed across the previously bug-filled drainage ditch towards the roofs of a township a few miles away. 

“Mac?” He startled at the sound of her voice. “I think we’re all done here.” 

MacCready took a long drag on his cigarette and stood up, nodding towards the rooftops.

“You were from round here, right? Do you know that place at all? Malden.”

“Never been. Nice, I heard. Think it got voted ‘Best Place to Raise Your Kids’ at some point. Oh and I’m pretty sure it had a hospital.” One of the few she hadn’t frequented in the two short years she’d been in Boston before the war. “But that’s all I remember. I lived in south Boston; between jobs and… well, I didn’t get a chance to see much of the area.”

His eyes flicked back from the distance and onto her. She’d not been subject to that level of scrutiny from him since their first awkward encounter in the backroom of Goodneighbor’s infamous Third Rail. Maybe his frown wasn’t so harsh this time - she hadn’t just told me she was actually just looking for a seat and not a mercenary, after all - his shadowed gaze holding her eye just long enough for her to start to shift uncomfortably, before he broke into a grim smile.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Boss. We need caps. You can’t afford to keep paying forever if all you do is set up house for the commonwealth’s laziest.”

Shit, that stung. It wasn’t just a judgement on how she chose to spend her time and energy, but also her ability to bring in an income. It wasn’t the first time those kinds of criticisms had been levelled at her, it was an old pre-war staple. But the point was it was  _ meant _ to sting; subtlety was not RJ MacCready’s strong suit. If she understood him right, this was his way of giving her fair warning that if she didn’t want to lose her personal mercenary, she was going to have to do something about it. 

And despite her wounded pride, she didn’t want to lose him. 

There was something about travelling with MacCready that, well, it was just hard to explain to anyone else. She’d tried with Preston, but he didn’t have all the facts - it wasn’t his fault, she’d just never given them to him. Instead she just kept a brave face on so that he didn’t worry. He already had too much on his plate. 

It was only in the quiet lonely moments that she was able to put a finger on what it was. MacCready filled silences, the ones that often threatened to drag her into bad memories. There was something so free about the way he always spoke his mind, no matter what was on it. No tricks. No games. He was a man who wasn’t afraid of being an open book; one look at the set of his brow or how he’d squared his jaw, and she knew just what he was feeling. There was something comforting in not having to fear a hidden temper. 

But trying to voice that meant picking at a still healing wound. So instead she told herself it was the freedom she enjoyed. The open road and the company of a near stranger who had no expectations of her other than a pocketful of caps.

_ Caps. She couldn’t make it up if she tried. God, if she’d known she’d have recycled less. _

But caps were the key.

“What did you have in mind?” MacCready looked at her curiously, as though he still wasn’t quite used to being allowed input. “You look like you have a plan. Tell me.”

“The hospital’s probably been picked clean by now, but I heard there’s some old pre-war lab on the other side of town. That place is probably locked down tight,” his grin turned into a smirk as his gaze flicked down to her fidgeting hands and back up to her eyes. “But I’ve seen those cute tricks you can do with locks. You could get us in.”

Ivy laughed and shook her head, hoping that the shadow from her hair might hide the slight warmth in her cheeks. That was another thing he did, shamelessly flirted and flattered if he was bored. Or if he wanted something. 

“Ok, so if I can get us in there, what then?”

“We could get good money for any chems we find. Lab equipment is pretty damn scarce, bet we could get some caps from that doc out of the Memory Den, or the Science Centre.” He took a last lazy drag on his cigarette before discarding it. Leaning back on the wall, he folded his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow at her. “And all the crap you can scavenge. What do you say?”

Ivy stepped forward to stamp out the still smouldering cigarette end, and gave his shoulder a playful shove.

“You had me at crap.”

* * *

MacCready had perked up by a mile compared to that morning, none of Ivy’s wasteland jitters stopped him from chatting as they walked, even, to her surprise, asking what kind of things she did back before the war that kept her from the excitement of Malden for over 200 years. 

She knew him well enough by now to guess which of her many part-time jobs would actually hold his interest. Hubris Comics had paid terribly, had her either overlooked or ogled because she was “a girl”, but freelancing to colour some of the independent books (nothing anyone had ever heard of of course) in her spare time had kept her working with art. It’s what she’d travelled thousands of miles to college for - well, before she dropped out. 

MacCready’s face lit up (or at least the parts not carefully shadowed by his hat) at so much as the mention of comics. By the time Malden was in sight she had promised him at least three times that she would not only keep an eye out for the issue of Grognak “ _ where Mastadonald and Skullpocalypse teamed up to fight him, yes I know Mac” _ , but that she wouldn’t keep it for herself.

The air was heavy, like breathing soup, with another storm just waiting to hit as they neared the outskirts of the town. Hopefully the weather would be polite enough to let them get indoors first, but that was unlikely given the clouds felt low enough to touch, and if her pipboy wasn’t telling her the contrary, she’d have thought it was evening with how dark the sky had grown. 

Ivy crept ahead, her eyes adjusting to the growing gloom, MacCready followed along a short distance behind her. She could make out the shape of Malden Memorial Hospital rising up ahead of them, the once presumably immaculate white now stained with dirt and radiation burns. Squinting through the dull light, she tried to focus on the out of place shapes by the main doors; quite opposed to the smooth sleek design of the building, these were jagged and metallic. Before she could decide if she spotted movement by the doors, she felt MacCready’s hand on her shoulder. 

“Mutants,” he said matter-of-factly, binoculars already raised to get a better look. He passed them to her once he confirmed his suspicions, pointing at a glow beyond the ambulance bay. “Best we take them out at a distance. Last thing we want is for them to see us sneak past, or to get ambushed once we’re done at the lab.”

He was right.  _ Of course _ . There were three super mutants milling around outside the hospital. Two looked to be patrolling, while another stood by a large pot - worryingly near to a number of gore filled chain sacks. 

Ivy handed back the binoculars and readied her rifle. They’d taken on super mutants before at Boston Library. Admittedly there had been a small army of protectrons and turrets to help, but it hadn’t been too bad. She glanced at Mac, who nodded for her to take the first shot, ready as always to mop up anything she missed - and smirk insufferably about it afterwards. 

Her shot rang out deafeningly across the silent landscape, but it struck home, straight into the head of the nearest mutant. It fell to the ground with a thump they could hear even at this distance. But the sound followed made her falter and fumble her next shot. 

It was a howl, but not like any dog should sound. And it was far closer than the hospital. 

“Damn it!” MacCready snarled, raising his rifle and, barely taking a moment to aim, he took down the second mutant as it turned from the pot to see what was happening. 

The vengeful weather that had dogged them all day seized its opportunity, fat drops of rain began to cascade down, soaking them as quickly as if they’d dived into the river. Within seconds Ivy’s hair was plastered to her head, leaving her blinking desperately to see through the rivulets of water pouring past her eyes, trying to find the source of the howls. 

Two mutant hounds broke through the brush ahead of them, mouths that were easily big enough to fit a human head, gaped open as they bounded towards the horrified pair. It took Ivy four shots to kill the one that set its sights on her - panic did nothing to help her aim. By the time she was done, it had corralled her to the far side of the road from MacCready. He was too busy yelling at the other hound, which had dodged out of his sight behind the hollowed out shell of a bus, to notice their separation. 

She never saw it reappear, her attention was unwillingly drawn by a shrill beeping swiftly growing louder. The third super mutant - chain wrapped and blood-painted - was sprinting straight at her down the road from the hospital, a fatman shell gripped in it’s enormous hand, red light flashing through the gloom. 

_ Fuck. _

She fired - a snatched shot, the rifle kicking back hard into her shoulder. Too scared to feel the pain, her yelp was more out of habit than anything else, but the numbness it sent down her arm was very real. The bullet struck the mutant’s shoulder, blood blossoming and flowing down its arm, but it didn’t slow its charge in the slightest. 

Her tongue felt fat, like it was trying to cut off her airway, sending black spots dancing across her vision. Everything in her body screamed at her to run, but her legs were rooted. Second shot - snatched again, this time to the gut but it was still coming. 

Not even the panic could numb the pain of her poorly taken shot slamming the rifle back into the newly forming bruise on her shoulder. 

_ “You don’t hipfire a goddamn rifle!” _ MacCready yelled, but it was in her head. He was nowhere in sight, could be being torn apart by a glowing hound for all she knew.

This time she paused, held her breath in tight, trying to slow her wildly beating heart and ignore the rain blurring her vision. She fired again. But the third time wasn’t a charm - it glanced off the mutant’s skull, only slowing it for a second as it shook its head. 

Her hands were shaking, bile rising in her throat as she took aim for a fourth time. 

_ Click. _

The gun jammed. And all the adrenaline that had flooded her system from the sound of that first howl came crashing down in a wave of pure panic. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might explode, between the whooshing of blood in her ears and the rain in her eyes, it felt like she was watching the whole scene unfold under water. 

And despite every survival instinct that screamed at her to run, all she could do was freeze, staring at the grinning green monster rushing towards her, arm raised ready to smash the nuke into her skull like it was scoring a touchdown. She squeezed her eyes shut, and braced herself, waiting for the pain before the inevitable end.

But there was nothing. Nothing but a gunshot ringing out painfully close to her ear. 

When Ivy opened her eyes, the body of the mutant was just a couple of feet from where she stood, an expanding pool of blood trickling towards her from where its head used to be. Her world was reduced to nothing more than blood and rain. 

_ Oh god.  _

She swallowed hard. Everything felt light, like she’d been drinking. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the ever growing crimson puddle, and the gore where a head used to be, not even when the world began to spin around her. For the second time in as many minutes, she wanted to run, find somewhere safe from the sight, safe from what she knew was coming, but her legs didn’t feel capable of holding her up anymore. 

“Phew! That was a close one, eh boss?” MacCready laughed, cocky as ever in the face of near death. Ivy barely heard him. 

_ No. Please. Not now. _

Everything was slipping again. The broken asphalt of a ruined road grazed her palms and bruised her knees, but her head was already so far away from that post-apocalyptic wasteland town. 

_ How can any of this be real? That the bombs fell, that the world ended.  _

_ The darkness draws her in. The hammering rain playing a tainted lullaby that finds her so often in her darker dreams.  _

_ No. The world never ended. It’s October 5th 2077. It’s night. It’s raining. And she’s scared. She’s in south Boston. The pavement is damp beneath her, water soaks into her dress as quickly as the diluted red pool spreads around her.  _

_ She squeezes her eyes shut, cast adrift, not knowing where to clutch at reality. The pain in her right eye when she does so is excruciating, like it's on fire, like that whole side of her face wants to rip in two.  _

_ How many times does this have to play out?  _

_ But maybe he’s done it this time. Maybe there’ll be no ambulance to save her as her world fades into darkness, half-blind from the blood running into her eyes. Maybe this is just the end. She opens her mouth to cry out, to make some sound - any sound at all - but nothing comes out. Blood and rainwater trickle past her lips and into her throat until she gags.  _

_ Somewhere amidst the pain and the darkness and the chaos, she can hear Rosa screaming to get back.  _

_ And the gunshot. _

Ivy’s eyes snapped open, her ears ringing from the gunshot, her heart pounding desperately. A two hundred year old ache coursed through her face. Tears welled up in her eyes as she reached up to trace her fingers along the scar that bisected her brow, cutting a surprisingly clean path across her eye and into her cheek. It was still there - deep enough that it always would be - but it was healed, and this time it was just rain that soaked her face. 

A firm grip shook her shoulder. Ivy recoiled, scrabbling wildly backwards across the sodden ground, an arm raised to protect herself from-- but it wasn’t him. It was MacCready, crouched on the floor in front of her, all the laughter drained from his face, eyes filled with genuine concern.

“Boss? Wha-- are you alright?”

There was nobody else there but the mercenary; no Rosa, no Ryan, nothing but rain and wasteland, and a young man with his hands in the air trying to show her he wasn’t going to hurt her. Her eyes locked onto MacCready -  _ one last test _ \- she reached out a shaking hand for his arm, gripping it tightly. His eyes never left her hand as her finger traced the stitching on his sleeve, checking ever so tentatively that everything looked -  _ felt _ \- the way it was supposed to. 

_ Solid. Real. _

Ivy let out a whimper of relief and half-lunged, half-flopped forwards, flinging her arms around his neck. Tears she hadn’t realised she was holding back, flooded her face, mixing with the pouring rain. Mac’s whole body tensed at the unexpected addition of a bawling young woman to his arms. But it only took a moment for the shock to wear off, before he wrapped an arm rib-bruisingly tightly around her - in response, no doubt, to how desperately she was clinging to him. His other hand never left his rifle. 

Ivy buried her face in the collar of his duster. It smelt of damp and cigarettes, and was desperately in need of dry-cleaning - or possibly incinerating - but she didn’t care. It was  _ real _ and tangible.  _ He _ was real, and so were the tears that burnt her eyes, and the cracked asphalt digging into her knees. 

She’d not had an episode this bad since the vault, maybe even before. The adrenaline had left her a shaking wreck. The memories, well, judging by the last few times, she’d not be getting a good night’s sleep in a while. 

It took a few minutes for the last of the sobs to leave her, letting herself take in the sensations of the world around her. All that time she could feel the muscles in MacCready’s neck twisted and strain as he scanned their surroundings, the stubble on his jaw grazing her temple he did, but he never let go. 

It wasn’t until Ivy loosened her grip on him, that he pulled away enough to look her in the eye, his free hand brushing her soaking hair from her face and cupping her cheek to examine her better. It was a sweet gesture, she knew it logically, but his thumb came far too close to her scar and she hastily drew back, turning her head enough for her hair to fall back across the offending mark. She’d never let anyone touch it but the doctors. 

“We need to move, angel,” MacCready spoke more gently than she’d ever heard him, his eyes darting back towards the hospital. “Inside will be crawling with greenskins, and sooner or later they’ll come out looking for their buddies. The quicker we’re back at the boathouse, the better.” 

It took her a moment to remember why they were there in the first place. Supplies. Caps. Chems from the research place. Anything.

“But we needed--”

“No.” This time he didn’t look at her when he spoke, his eyes were trained across town on the black industrial rooftops standing at the far end of Malden. “It was a dumb idea. Let's get moving.” 

MacCready winced as he stood, it couldn’t have been comfortable squatting for five minutes with a sobbing mad woman wrapped around his neck. He rolled the tension out of his shoulders before helping her up. Another wave of panic hit Ivy as she reached out to take his offered hand and saw the blood that stained it.

He cottoned no faster than she did, “It’s not yours, it’s mutie blood. You’re okay.” 

The victim of her narrow escape had produced a shallow river of blood that flowed down hill to where she knelt. It was right up the side of her leg as well, she’d just not felt it through the material of her vault suit. 

“Oh god, Mac, I’ve got it all on your coat,” Ivy sniffled apologetically as he helped her to her feet. 

“It’s fine. Come on.” He let out a dry chuckle, trying to raise a smile from her as they turned back in the direction of the boathouse. “I’m thinking this might not be the best place to raise your kids anymore.”

With a long look back over his shoulder, MacCready steered Ivy up the road and away from Malden. 

* * *

Bathed in flickering lamplight, Ivy stood in front of the mirror in the second floor bathroom - one of the few rooms upstairs that still had a roof, although the lack of dividing wall meant that every strong gust of wind still splattered her with the unrelenting downpour that hammered the boathouse. MacCready was right when he gave her first dibs on washing up. She did look like a murder clown. Mutie blood and mascara were smeared down her face, and her eyes were still puffy from her extremely public breakdown.

Out of habit she turned the hot tap, of course nothing came out. Sinks these days were little more than glorified buckets for her to pour tins of purified water into. She set to work with her makeshift washcloth - a tattered old t-shirt she boiled whenever she got the chance - scrubbing away the once immaculately applied makeup, along with the blood and grime that coated her face. Her palms stung from where asphalt had dug into skin, every pass of the cloth removing a little more blood and a little more dirt, until the water was almost black, but her hands were finally clean enough that she could make out the freckles that dotted her skin. And the pale band where an engagement ring once sat. A ring that had made it’s new home in the silt layering the bottom of the Charles. 

Her hand shook slightly as she smoothed the fresh coat of eyeliner across her upper lid. She always got the shakes when she tackled the ridges of her scar, but today was worse than usual. The fact that it took extra concentration to keep the line perfect, that she had to stare so hard at the offending mark to keep everything symmetrical, really was one final cruelty from beyond the grave. 

For the last two years - well, 212, but who’s counting - dark eyes had become her signature look. Makeup hid all manner of sins, and after two years alone with Ryan, she’d become an expert at hiding his sins. 

* * *

They’d done their best to make Taffington habitable for the night -  _ dry _ and habitable that was. The long couch which sat beneath the sunroom window had been dragged into the centre of the main room, away from the rain blowing through the broken panes. It’d make for a fairly comfortable bed for the night, although it would’ve been nice if their blankets hadn’t been soaked along with everything else in their packs. 

A fire crackled in the grate, not giving out much warmth yet but enough to light the room and start to dry the clothes hanging by it. MacCready’s duster and hat hung on a nail on the nearest wall, fresh from having the blood (and an attempt at the grime) scrubbed out of them. His and Ivy’s boots were pushed up right next to the fire; if they weren’t dry by morning, they’d be in for a very unpleasant walk back to Sanctuary. 

MacCready sat on the floor nearby, bare feet propped on a concrete block by the grate. It was a rare sight to catch the man without his hat, his thick sandy-brown hair was as soaked as the clothes drying by the fire; the fluffy mop that he usually attempted to be tame into side-parting was flopped, dripping onto his forehead. He still wore a thick green shirt, despite the left sleeve - worn exposed to the elements in place of the one missing from his duster - still being drenched. 

He was busy working a bandage that he must have retrieved from her kit, around a bite wound on his forearm. She’d obviously missed one of the hounds sinking its teeth into him while she was too busy doing a terrible job of dealing with that mutant. 

“Do you need a hand?” she offered, but he waved her away before she could get too close, tying off the bandage between his spare hand and his teeth. 

She shrugged, a little put out by his dismissal, and instead padded between him and the fire, headed for the kitchen where the contents of her pack were spread out on the worksurface to dry. She’d already given up hoping her change of clothes would be wearable before she went to sleep, resigning herself to yet another night in the damned vault suit - now feeling more restrictive than ever from the scrapes and bruises that had waited for the shock and the numbness to wear off to remind her of their existence. 

Her shoulder throbbed; with all the mental chaos that had followed their encounter with the mutants she’d almost forgotten the damage she’d done to herself. A tentative unzipping of her vault suit revealed the edge of a massive black and purple bruise. Peeling the suit back further showed it crept all from the centre of her shoulder, across her right collarbone and chest, and up into her armpit. 

Perhaps it was a good thing they hadn’t scavenged much of anything today, god knows how she would carry it given that even carrying her rifle over that shoulder was going to be excruciating come the morning. 

The slap of bare feet on the stone floor made her jump, sending half her medical supplies and an open packet of gumdrops scattering across the floor.  _ Motherfuck. _ It was one thing eating 200 year old candy, it was quite another to eat 200 year old  _ floor _ candy. 

MacCready sauntered into the kitchen behind her, and hopped up to sit on the counter in the space where her scattered gear had once been. Ivy crouched to grab the IV bags of radaway that slipped under the cupboards, hastily zipping up her suit as she did. 

“Nasty bruise.” The merc didn’t miss a trick. “Looks like you might need a little rifle refresher course.”

“How's the arm?” she countered from her spot on the floor, stretching with her uninjured arm for the bag that had bounced furthest back. He shrugged nonchalantly, like the bandage wrapped the entire length of his forearm hid nothing more painful than a zit. 

“300 caps,” he announced triumphantly when she sat back up from clawing the last bag of Radaway from under the back of the cupboards. 

“I--” Confused, Ivy stood up, Radaway tucked under one arm. She reached for her own cap stash, tucked away in the bottom of her pack, unsure why he’d chosen that moment to suddenly demand payment. 

“No,” Mac caught her wrist, rolling his eyes before she could open the stash. He dropped a pile of caps onto the surface next to her, tinkling metallically as they rolled across the counter. “We  _ made _ 300 caps from the fatman shell and the rest of that mutie junk. Not a bad haul, huh?” 

Of course, the traders. Lucas Miller and his crew wandered through Malden as if it were no more dangerous than strolling in a pre-war park. And there she was, feeling like her nightmare had been reduced to little more than excessive tears over a stubbed toe. 

“Wow, who knew near death could pay so well?” she gave him a halfhearted smile. 

Everything that day had been exhausting, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she was starving and soaking, then she probably would have passed out hours ago. 

“You need to lighten up, angel.” He looked serious for a moment, but then the smirk spread slowly back across his lips. “Hey, have you heard this one?” 

“No! No more super mutant jokes!” She flopped her head into her arms on the counter, laughing more at his persistence than the quality of his jokes. He’d thrown them at her all the way from Malden until he’d finally got her smiling through the tears. “You can stop trying to make me laugh now.” 

He hopped down off the counter, leaning right back on his elbows, so that if she looked up there was no way she could avoid his eye line. It wasn’t often, if ever, that she got a good look at his face. They spent most their time to date, either back-to-back or side-by-side against the world. Quiet moments in relative safety were a rarity. 

Ivy was completely caught off guard by how blue his eyes were, he usually kept them so well hidden under the brim of his cap. No wonder, expressive hardly covered it; if she thought she could tell his mood from the set of his jaw, one long look into those baby blues and could probably write a small novel about it. They were ocean blue, but not the stormy grey she’d grown used to from the Atlantic battering the Massachusetts coastline. No, they were Mediterrean blue, like the waters off Greece back when she’d travelled the summer before college, warm and inviting. 

_ For the love of god, woman, stop staring. _

She wasn’t the only one catching a chance for a better look at their partner. Wicked smirk fixed in place, MacCready took a moment of his own to enjoy her reaction to his teasing. 

“It’s about the super mutant who wondered why a rock kept getting bigger. Then it hit him.” MacCready chuckled, looking up expectantly at her. “No?”

“No.” 

She laughed in spite herself, gently pushing him back out of her eye line, and busying herself reassembling her medkit. 

MacCready winked at her on his way back out of the kitchen, “Ah you know, you’re just no fun.”

And for the briefest  _ stupidest _ moment her mind got caught, not on how she nearly died earlier that day, but on what a pathetic wreck she must have looked under the scrutiny of those bright blue eyes. 

Ivy hastily shoved the disconcerting train of thought aside and went back to checking nothing else had been lost from her kit. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Ivy opened her eyes. It took her a moment to remember where and when she was. She stared up at the peeling paint around the ceiling rose, taking her time to let the memories of the previous day settle back into her head. There was no point in rushing herself. 

Sat in front of her, his back against the couch still, was MacCready. At some point in the night, after the second, maybe third time she’d jerked awake, he’d moved from his watch position to sit with her - settling cross-legged on the floor, rifle in his lap. He’d made no comment on the matter, just sat down and continued his watch. She could vaguely remember the last she heard before she drifted off to sleep was the sound of him quietly humming something off the radio - her frazzled brain couldn’t make the connection, but he was more tuneful than she’d have guessed. 

He’d never woken her for the second watch, and judging by the lingering smell of cigarette smoke along with the stubbed out end in a broken mug at his side, it hadn’t been that long since he’d nodded off. His cap had slipped down over his eyes and he was snoring quietly.

Ivy sat up, blinking in the early morning sunlight that streamed through the broken windows, shivering slightly at the cool fresh breeze that crept past the glass. She ignored her aching muscles, tight from curling to keep warm through the night, and crept off the couch as quietly as she could, stealing a quick glance at the sleeping mercenary. He looked so much younger without the worries of the waking hours on his shoulders. 

Her bruises would’ve loved for her to lie back down, maybe steal another hour or two’s sleep, but the morning light was calling to her. It was too good of an opportunity to miss.  _ Golden hour _ \- that brief window when warmth seemed to seep back into the wasteland. When the world felt different, not so cold and desolate, and she could let a little of that warmth restore some faith to her aching heart. 

Even when they were tucked away behind the walls of the great green jewel, she couldn’t resist the urge to sneak to the top of the stands and up onto the rooftops; it was worth every heart stopping moment of climbing so high, to be able to sit and watch Boston change, just for a brief while. 

She smiled to herself as she dug through her pack, pulling out one of her sketchbooks and a small tin of watercolours. What she wouldn’t give for a decent working camera, one with a good lens that hadn’t been poached and irreparably damaged for a sniper scope. But paint would have to do, and she’d have to hurry if she wanted to do her best to capture it. 

Barefoot she snuck out of the kitchen to the deck, settling with her back against the sunroom wall. Across the river to the south of Taffington lay the memorial bridge and the freeway, beyond the water were the townhouse rooftops and churches of Charlestown and Cambridge, and dominating the skyline behind them, the skyscrapers of Boston. A vista of everything that had been lost to the war. But that morning, with everything bathed in golden light, glittering like stars on fragments of shattered glass, it felt like there was still life in the world. 

Ivy hummed quietly as she sketched, letting herself zone out - a stupid thing to do in the wasteland, but these moments of real peace were rare and she grasped them with both hands. By the time she heard the boards creak next to her, she had no clue how long she’d been working, just that there was paint on her hands, the morning light was losing it lustre, and that she was as close to finished as she was going to get. 

MacCready placed a chipped mug of coffee at her side, squatting down to get a look at what she’d been working on. He must have thought she was even more delusional than yesterday; the morning light had lost it’s glow, the clear skies were now cool, the world was beige again - and her painting looked more like a wish than reality. Maybe it was, but there were worse ways to see the world. 

“Had me worried for a minute there, waking up to find you’d wandered off. Figured you couldn’t have gotten too far without your boots though.” 

“Thank you.” Ivy smiled and picked up the hot mug, glad of the warmth against her wind-chilled fingers. 

Bearing caffeine or not, the mercenary was a welcome sight. He’d been gentler with her than she deserved after everything that had gone wrong the day before. In the light of a brand new day, she felt a revived hope that there might be more friendship in their little arrangement than just business dealings. 

“Hey, Mac?”

“Hmm?”

Without thinking - a habit anyone who’d known her for more than a matter of weeks would have grown accustomed to - she leant over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, having to stifle a giggle when she sat back and saw the shocked look on his face. Flushed cheeked, he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“It was just a coffee...” he mumbled, pulling the peak of his cap down low to shade his face.

Ivy cracked out laughing. “For yesterday. Thank you for yesterday.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he let out an embarrassed laugh of his own. “It was nothing, partner.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. If you're curious, Ivy Hope Kendrick is not a canon-origin sole survivor. She was recovering with Rosa (over the road from Nate and Nora) when the bombs fell. Rosa was not at home when it all went down, so Nora managed to blag her into the vault in Rosa's place. (I know canonically Rosa didn't have a spot, but I'm deep into canon divergence here). A data-entry error has everyone from Vault-ten to the Institute assuming she is Shaun's mum. 
> 
> 2\. If you ask me, if you went that close to Malden in the early days with Mac, there is no way he wouldn't try and convince you to go to Med-Tek without any proper explanation. The temptation is too great!
> 
> 3\. I really did nearly get blown up by one of the damn super mutant there. The bastard just wouldn't die.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this beast of a one shot! It kept growing, I couldn't stop it. If you're interested in seeing any more Mac x Ivy, my tumblr side blog @third-rail-vip has art, screenshots and asks about these two. <3


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